


I am the martyr (and love is to blame)

by xdandelionxbloomx



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Geralt of Rivia has feelings, Jaskier is reincarnated as a woman and as a man through this, M/M, Mortality, Multiple Deaths, and an elf, love is precious let yourself feel it, the reincarnation au that wouldn't leave me alone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:01:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23869459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xdandelionxbloomx/pseuds/xdandelionxbloomx
Summary: The young man slides onto the bench in front of him and Geralt sets his jaw, turns his gaze away, makes a decision to never let him close.Tells himself that it will not happen again.(He cannot survive it.)Geralt pushes back for every step closer that Jaskier takes, but it never deters the bard, not once.+Or, otherwise known as the Reincarnation AU that woke me up at 5 AM with the vivid first section and would not let me rest until I wrote it.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 53
Kudos: 491





	I am the martyr (and love is to blame)

**Author's Note:**

> A lot has been going on in my life and this is the first time I've really felt like sitting down and writing in a while. I hope that you like this! It sort of hit me out of nowhere. There are mentions of death in this, but the death scenes aren't long (a couple of sentences a piece). 
> 
> The title comes from She Is The Sunlight by Trading Yesterday and it's a beautiful song that inspired this fic a lot.

Geralt is fresh to the Path the first time he meets a flower. 

It’s a small village, maybe twelve houses in total excluding what was more of a hut off the road leading into the area, and they don’t have much money. 

Still, Geralt cannot leave them terrorized by what seems to be the presence of a bruxa - one who is hungry _and_ angry. 

There are a few in the village that point him in the direction of the hut, claiming a young woman lived there that was _odd_. 

Geralt doubts seriously that it’s a lead, but follows anyway. Perhaps she’ll have a better head on her shoulders than the men that are quick to turn blame on innocent women in the village. 

The hut is empty when he arrives, but a scent lingers behind - something citrusy, cedar, the smoke of a campfire… if Geralt were to admit it, it’s actually quite pleasant. 

He hears her before he sees her, but it hardly matters because he hears the weapon drawn before it’s thrown. He steps to the side and the blade whizzes by to bury itself in the door, rattling it on its hinges. 

Geralt turns and lifts a brow at the sight that meets him. 

She’s a young thing, brandishing a second dagger now. Chestnut curls cut short, sticking to the back of her neck with sweat from the summer day. The hand not holding the blade is wrapped tightly around the back legs of a rabbit - fresh back from a hunt. 

She wore pants so patched that Geralt could scarcely tell what the original fabric was, a tunic tucked into them without an overshirt. On the taller side for a woman, her eyes sat level with his chin - eyes bluer than the sky sprawling overhead, wide, brows furrowed above them. 

Geralt raises a brow slowly and she huffs, sliding the dagger back into the sheath strapped to her thigh. 

“Can’t blame me, Witcher. Couldn’t see the eyes from here..” She points out and Geralt hums an affirmative, stepping to the side to allow her to pass him. He follows her into the hut, more intrigued than he cares to admit. Especially when the slight sour scent of fear fades into something neutral. It’s a rare and novel thing not to have something bitter invading his senses when he’s simply speaking casually to someone.

She introduces herself as _Buttercup_ , says no she will not give him her real name, and laughs when Geralt dryly jokes that Witchers don’t work like fae. 

Her laugh is… pretty. 

Geralt wants to hear it again. 

He offers to skin the rabbit for her, feels awkward simply standing to the side - for his trouble she brandishes the already bloody blade at him. 

“I don’t need a man’s help, Geralt.” She tells him and he inclines his head just a little in silent apology, watching her make quick work of the rabbit as she talks. 

He nearly misses half of what she says, realizing that her voice is quite melodic, rising and falling as she emphasizes certain words. It’s pleasant. 

_She’s_ pleasant. 

Buttercup gives him something of a promising lead, starting with what he suspects could be the area surrounding the bruxa’s lair. 

She tells him about the birds that roost there, the unnatural way they follow travelers, the cave perched on the side of the valley wall - hard to reach with high ground. It would be perfect for a bruxa to hunker down in. 

He tells her as much, and she purses her lips, watching him critically. 

“You’ll be able to handle it?” She asks, and he nearly laughs, startled more than anything. 

When was the last time someone asked _that_ of him? 

“Of course.” Geralt snorts. A Bruxa is tough, but he’s a Witcher and Witchers are tougher. (Until they’re not. But he’s young and good with a sword, he’s got a long time before what Vesemir called a Witcher’s retirement.) 

“I heard a song about them once. They’re like land sirens.” And Geralt’s _never_ thought about it that way. It makes him snort again and then _laugh_. 

She grins at him and he moves to leave, opening his mouth to bid her a good afternoon. 

“And where do you think you’re going? Dinner won’t take _that_ long.” 

Geralt’s drawn up short, blinking at her dumbly. 

“Dinner?” He echoed and Buttercup lifted a brow at him. 

“Did I stutter? You’re certainly not hard of hearing.” She tipped her head. “Yes, dinner. Rabbit stew - I wasn’t expecting company, but I have some vegetables and spices that’ll suffice well enough. Sit down.” She points with the bloody knife to one of the chairs at the rickety table.

He hesitates, but then settles himself down, wincing slightly at the creak of the chair beneath his weight. She seems unconcerned and he hopes she’s right, crossing his fingers that the chair doesn’t give out from beneath him. 

She hums as she works and Geralt finds himself watching her, hands clever as they work through what seem to be practiced movements. 

They’re nice hands. 

She glances up at some point, finds him staring, and to his surprise she smiles at him. It’s a bit crooked and she reveals that she has dimples. 

It’s oddly endearing. 

Geralt finds himself smiling back before he can think to resist and he ducks his head just a bit, a few errant strands of hair falling into his face - too short to fit into the half up style that he’s taken to wearing his hair in. 

Dinner is nice, too. 

She… laughs at his jokes and he finds himself smiling more than he has since leaving Kaer Morhen. She’s unafraid and ribs him as frequently as his brothers, though perhaps she’s a bit more kind about it. 

He lingers even when his bowl is empty and he fully intends to leave, but she gets up, takes his bowl from him and refills it. It won’t leave her with much but she waves off his protest - 

“You need it more than me.” She says, simply, and the sentiment is one he hasn’t heard in a long time. It makes him pause, searching her face. She smiles softly at him, apparently pleased at his disbelief. 

“You’re odd.” Geralt huffs, before thinking it through. 

She doesn’t flinch, merely hums and rolls her shoulders in a loose shrug. “So I’ve been told. I don’t think it’s a bad thing to be.” 

Geralt hums a soft noise, uncertain what he should even say to that. It’s such a different attitude to those he’s met before. 

When he leaves, it’s reluctant. 

Still. 

He mounts Roach, a dark gold dappled palomino this time, and rides her towards the valley. 

+

He emerges the next morning bloody and worse for wear. 

There’s a sluggishly bleeding open wound at his side, four gashes from long claws. His shoulder throbs where he was thrown into a rock wall by a shriek and his ears still ring from her voice. 

He’s blinking away the last of a Cat potion halfway to where he left Roach when someone is _there_. 

Geralt reaches for his steel sword on instinct, but finds he doesn’t need to use it on his next inhale - citrus, cedar, smoke-- 

It’s _her_ and Geralt rumbles out a low noise as her hands find his shoulders. 

“You handled it, alright.” Buttercup scoffs at him and he lifts the arm not screaming at him, brandishing the head of the bruxa with a low grunt. 

“Oh, yes, big scary Witcher slaughtered the monster, sure, but look at the state of you.” She bullies her way under the lifted arm, not even flinching at the blood seeping into her tunic from his armor and the trophy. 

“Why are you here?” Geralt finally works out, voice rough. 

“Followed you. Had a feeling you’d get into trouble.” Buttercup says, like that doesn’t completely knock him off balance. He blinks slowly. 

He lets her herd him to Roach, lets her help him onto the horse, lets her tie the trophy to Roach’s saddle, lets her take the reins and lead the mare back towards her hut. 

If Geralt passes out along the way, he doesn’t let her know - he’s ridden blacked out a few times. 

She helps him out of the saddle when they arrive, straining with the effort and grunting as she helps him into the hut. She all but dumps him onto her bedroll. 

He _does_ pass out then. 

When he comes to, it’s because of a spike of pain. He snarls, slapping away whatever is prodding at the open wounds on his side. 

Buttercup immediately raises her hands in the universal symbol of _no harm meant_ , huffing softly. 

“C’mon, Geralt. You need that cleaned.” She says, and Geralt hisses, but drops his head back to the bedroll, becoming aware he was in a different position than before, missing his armor and his dirty shirt is rucked up to his armpits. 

He clenches his jaw, but then nods, closing his eyes. 

Gentle fingers sweep back a few stray strands from his face. “You can rest afterwards.” She says, softly, and Geralt swallows thickly. 

She bandages it after it’s been cleaned and Geralt is sweaty, exhausted, by the time it is over. She pulls the shirt back down, gives his chest a light pat. 

“Sleep now. I’ll make you something to eat for when you wake.” 

+

It takes three days for Geralt to get back on his feet properly. On the second he’d been able to move about, but it was slow and ginger - more often than not Buttercup would bully him back into bed. 

On the third day Geralt knows he has to get going. He is already packing when the sun rises, Buttercup still deep in sleep - he’d let her take the bedroll that night and it’s the first time that she’s slept properly since he’d left her house before the bruxa hunt he’s quite sure. 

Some part of Geralt wants to wake her, to thank her for all she had done. 

He isn’t sure he’d have the strength to walk away from her with those cornflower blues trained on him, though. 

The Path calls outside the hut and Geralt shoulders his swords carefully, making sure to make as little noise as he can. He gathers up a scrap of parchment from his bags, scribbling a short note of thanks. 

It’s simple, to the point, and he lays it by her head, gaze tracing her profile one more time before he tears himself away. He pads to the door on light feet, ducking out. 

It’s hard the first few steps, but after he’s gathered his coin, he’s already resigning himself to the road once more. 

When he emerges from the alderman’s house, he’s drawn up short - again. 

Buttercup stands in her now blood-stained tunic, arms crossed, hand clenched around the crumpled note. A hip cocked to the side, lips pursed. She has a bag slung over her shoulder, a sturdy but worn pair of boots on her feet. 

“You’re lucky I like you, Witcher.” She snaps and Geralt feels a bit like he’s being scolded. What for, he’s not entirely sure. 

“I--” 

“So. That’s decided. Where are we headed?” She steps forward, into Geralt’s space. 

Geralt’s not sure what to make of it. 

“I’m-- we?” 

“Did I stutter?” She asks, and _there_ , the ghost of a smile tugging at her lips. 

“No. It’s just-- the Path isn’t for humans. It’s too dangerous.” Geralt manages, still a bit startled. 

“Oh, bullshit. It’s too dangerous for you and you walk it anyway. Besides, there’s not been a person in this realm able to tell me what is and what isn’t for me.” Buttercup lifts her chin defiantly and Geralt feels so irrationally fond in that moment that he almost caves. 

“I’m following you whether you like it or not.” Buttercup adds, with a huff of a laugh. “See, I’m quite stubborn and--” 

Geralt ducks forward and kisses her. 

+

Buttercup dies two years later at the outstretched claws of a werewolf, chest torn open in a physical echo of the pain that Geralt roared and screamed and raged and wailed to the moonlit forest. 

+-+-+

The second time Geralt meets a flower, he’s exhausted. 

The Path had been easier with Buttercup by his side. Even now, decades later, it feels empty without her singing, without her rambling. 

It feels empty without her warmth at his back, without her arms about his waist. 

He’s tired of trudging the Path alone, tired of patching his own wounds - or bleeding in a coma until his accelerated healing forces him to his feet once more. 

The Roach he rides now is a dark grey mare, nearly black. She’s a bit skittish for his tastes, but he hasn’t the coin to invest in a new horse. 

They are stopped for a moment at the side of a street in a small city called Novigrad, Geralt’s hands wrapped tightly around Roach’s reins as he reads the notice board, looking for any contracts. He’s glad that they’ve become more commonplace - makes it easier for him when passing through a town to judge if there’s any work for him to take. 

“Oh! Oh, I beg your _pardon_ \--” Shrill, offended, carrying above the sounds of the city, but there was a musical note to it. 

Geralt closes his eyes, tells himself not to get involved. 

It’s worse to get involved with human affairs than to let them run amok. 

“ _Unhand me before you lose your fingers_ \--!” 

Geralt turns on his heel and advances towards the sound of the scuffle. Roach tosses her head and Geralt clenches his jaw. 

It’s an elf - barely more than a boy, face still soft with his youth, not yet sharpened. His pointed ears peek out from blonde hair that curls at his jaw, vividly blue eyes wide and worried. He’s flinching back from the half circle of men that trap his exit from the alley, although Geralt can see the elf’s eyes scanning the sides of the buildings, looking for an exit, something that can help him scrabble his way out. 

Between the men and the elf a hat lays dirtied and crumpled in the dirt. 

Geralt sighs. 

The metallic sound of his sword being drawn makes all eyes turn to him. 

“Let the boy go.” Geralt rumbles, satisfied when one of the men immediately begins to reek of _fear_. 

The elf splutters. “ _Boy_ \--” 

“Aren’t you supposed to hunt monsters?” One of the men has the audacity to ask and Geralt lifts a brow. 

“Am I not?” Geralt asks, continuing in the silence that followed. “You’re attacking someone unarmed and afraid. Leave.” He nods his head, “And I won’t bother to follow.” 

A tense moment, the elf’s expressions going through a veritable _journey_.The men turn, though one turns, spits on the elf’s hat as a parting gift. 

Geralt grits his teeth, shakes his head as he sheathes the sword. 

“Best to get out of the city, boy. It’s not safe for you here.” Geralt informs, quietly. 

“I’m not a _boy_.” The elf snarls back at him, and bends to snatch up the crumpled hat a look of disgust on his face. “And I don’t need a man’s help. I had it under control.” 

For a moment, Geralt tenses. The words echo in a different voice, a higher one. 

The elf waves a hand in front of his face, startlingly close. 

Geralt doesn’t jump, but it’s a near thing. 

“Oh? Did you?” Geralt asks, breathes in, freezes again, eyes locked on blue eyes. 

Because that’s impossible. 

No one in the world smelled exactly the same. Similar perhaps, yes, but never exactly the same. 

And yet. 

And yet, here in front of him, the elf smelled _just like her_. 

Geralt can’t find his voice - it had fled somewhere far away, hidden itself where he couldn’t reach. 

The elf scoffs at him, though his annoyance melts into something else when he realizes that Geralt hasn’t moved for the past few seconds. 

“Hey.” The elf snaps his fingers in front of his face and Geralt’s hand darts up, wraps around the elf’s wrist, holds firmly, but not too tight. He hears the other’s breath hitch and Geralt squeezes the wrist warningly. 

“Who are you?” Low, near a threat though only on the outskirts. Buttercup had been achingly, beautifully human. She was no creature. But this-- this was not normal. 

“Hey, ease up!” The elf squeaked a little. 

“Who. Are. You.” 

“They call me Dandelion! They call me Dandelion, I’m an elf, but only by birth. I just want to play music, hey--” The elf was tripping over his own words in a way Buttercup never had, pulling lightly at his wrist. 

Geralt let him go, frowning now. 

“A stupid decision.” 

Dandelion huffs, frowning right back at him. “Maybe so, but _my_ stupid decision.” He murmurs and then shook his head. “I came to look at the Ouds - I just planned to purchase one and then be on my way.” 

Geralt heaves a sigh, reaching up to scrub at his face. 

He should leave this be. 

He cannot. 

Dandelion smells like her. 

“If I escort you to get one, will you leave the city then?” Geralt growls out. 

The elf practically lights up. 

“Yes!” He says and Geralt heaves _another_ sigh. 

So they go find the shop that Dandelion chattered about - he talked more than Buttercup by far. It was a buzzing that Geralt wanted to get rid of and bask in forever all at once. Dandelion buys his instrument and then Geralt herded him out, walking him to the edge of the city. 

“I’m going to write a song about you.” Dandelion announces, standing at the crossroads outside of Novigrad. Roach paws at the ground in annoyance. 

“Just stay out of trouble.” Geralt tells him, takes one good last look, and then mounts the horse. 

He turns away from both the elf and Novigrad, taking back to the Path. He does not let himself look back. 

+

They run into each other two years later. 

Dandelion is at the front of a rowdy tavern in Velen, plucking at the Oud that Geralt helped him purchase. His voice is clear and carries over the clamor, rising and dipping with ease. 

His golden hair has grown, plaited and pulled back from his face, only a few stray wisps plastered to his temples with sweat. 

His blue eyes find Geralt even as he hides in the shadows. They light up and Geralt debates on turning around and leaving the tavern. His feet find themselves rooted to the spot, his eyes taking in the sight of the burgundy silks, the matching hat placed jauntily atop his head to hide his ears. 

When the song is over, Dandelion does a low bow and starts making his way towards the bar, ordering two ales, which he carries over to a table that Geralt stood nearby. 

“Sit down, Witcher!” The elf greets, and adds - “Maybe this time actually tell me your name, yes?” 

Geralt should leave. 

He doesn’t. 

Geralt perches at the table as well, taking the ale when it was offered to him. He tells himself because it was free alcohol. 

“Well?” The elf prompts, properly grinning now. 

He has dimples. 

Geralt closes his eyes for a moment so that he doesn't have to see. Just for a moment. 

“Geralt. Of Rivia.” He mutters, voice low and rolling. 

“Geralt.” The elf greets, voice warm. 

Geralt’s heart trembles. 

+

When Geralt leaves the village three days later, the elf turned bard follows after. 

Geralt threatens to break the Oud in his sleep. Says he’ll leave the elf stranded with no help how to get to the next village. Says that he’ll turn Roach loose on him. 

He does none of those things and Dandelion follows doggedly after, refusing to let him get far without him. 

Even if he does leave while the elf is still asleep, by the next day he has caught up to Geralt, sleepless night or not. 

He writes bouncy music, voice digging further and further into Geralt’s brain until the Witcher quits trying to leave him behind. Until it would feel empty without the elf around, without his constant chatter. 

Dandelion works to close the distance between them and Geralt tries to shut him down, tries to keep a distance, but it never works. 

He’s in Geralt’s space before long, touching his elbow when they walk together, grabbing his wrist to direct him, brushing a shoulder as he passed-- 

The elf touches Geralt casually boldly, unashamed, _gentle_ \-- 

Geralt wakes up with tears on his face one night and Dandelion is right _there_ , pushing the hair that had fallen loose from his hair tie back, brushing his hand lightly over his forehead. 

“It’s okay. It’s okay.” Dandelion murmurs, and _holds_ Geralt like he’s something _precious_. 

Geralt buries his face in the elf’s neck and _breaks_ . He cries quietly, sliding his arms around his lithe waist, breathes in _her_ scent and weeps. 

Dandelion pets through his hair and wraps his arm tightly around Geralt’s shoulders. 

“I know you’re softer than you let on.” He whispers to Geralt, “And no matter how much you don’t want to let someone in, I’m gonna be here. Because you deserve someone to help you, Geralt.” 

Geralt clings to him. 

In the morning, the sun is a soft golden wash that makes Dandelion gentle around the edges, makes him glow. 

Geralt leans over him, braces an elbow against the grass between their bedrolls-- 

Dandelion reaches up, brushes fingers over his jaw. 

Geralt kisses him, soft and chaste and light. 

Dandelion smiles against his mouth. 

+

Geralt gets five blessed years with Dandelion. 

They travel. Geralt kills monsters and Dandelion sings. 

The elf holds him on the bad nights and Geralt presses his nose into his hair until the lines blur between Buttercup and Dandelion and there is only _love_. 

In the fifth year, Dandelion leaves their inn room to get breakfast and gets stabbed in the tavern. He succumbs to an infection, something that makes his lungs rattle in his chest, his breathing a wheezing that will haunt Geralt forever. 

Geralt vows not to love again.

+-+-+

The third time Geralt meets a flower, he wants to scream. 

If Destiny were before him, Geralt would spit in its face. 

Why him? 

Why torment him so? 

The young man slides onto the bench in front of him and Geralt sets his jaw, turns his gaze away, makes a decision to never let him close. 

Tells himself that it will not happen again. 

(He cannot survive it.) 

Geralt pushes back for every step closer that Jaskier takes, but it never deters the bard, not once. 

Cornflower blue eyes, just like hers, chestnut locks, though he stands taller than his previous lives. The scent is the same, overpowering on the days that Jaskier insisted on helping Geralt bathe. 

It reminds him of _them_ so much that he cannot speak those nights, goes to bed to Jaskier muttering about grumpy Witchers. 

Geralt cannot bring himself to tell Jaskier that it is _grief_. 

That it tears him apart. 

That he carries their ghosts, that Jaskier stands before him as another thing he will lose, that he _knows_ he will lose. 

It will never be enough time. 

He _knows_ in Cintra that it’s too late. That he has let Jaskier too close to his heart, that the bard held the poor withered thing in his hands. 

Still yet he insists - “We’re not friends.” 

Because they are not. 

They never had been. 

It had never _just_ been friendship. 

Too easy Jaskier’s (Buttercup’s, Dandelion’s) energy had drawn him in, made his chest open up like a morning-glory to moonlight. 

Yennefer is different. 

She doesn’t-- trap him. Doesn’t see him, his core, the way Jaskier does. It makes it easier to be with her. Safer. He will not shatter when she inevitably goes. 

And then Jaskier asks him to go to the coast and Geralt cannot take it. He cannot bear the weight of it any more. 

He sends Jaskier away the next day, shouts at him, says in his grief the only thing he can think that would chase him off. 

Begs for Destiny not to do this to him again. 

She was too cruel to him, though. Had already inevitably wrapped them around each other. Two decades Geralt had gotten with Jaskier because he did not let him in to love, did not let him _too close_. 

Jaskier leaves and Geralt falls apart. 

He wakes up with his face soaked in tears every night. 

He is hollow. 

He is empty. 

Silence rings in his head louder than any noise ever has. 

It is nigh unbearable. 

When Geralt thinks he cannot go on, a girl finds him. 

She rushes into his arms and Geralt cannot leave her alone, no matter how he feels unfit to continue. 

So he keeps going - for her and her alone. It is the only thing that keeps him moving. 

They are halfway across the Continent on the way to Kaer Morhen when they run into Jaskier. 

It’s quite literal, Ciri with hair cut short, rounding a corner with a stolen apple in hand - they hadn’t the coin to pay for a meal in two days and hunting this close to the city is scarce. 

Jaskier startles, but then lights up, wraps her in his arms, and looks up when Geralt follows. 

Jaskier is-- 

He is beautiful as he ever was, though his blue eyes flash with steel. Geralt inclines his head and will not meet his gaze. 

Shame and pain make his hands tremble. 

Jaskier gathers up his lute and follows them towards Kaer Morhen without even so much as a talk. 

Geralt hides his tears as best he can at night, but it is only so long until Jaskier knows, until he finds out. 

They are almost to Kaer Morhen when that happens. 

Geralt is trying to gather himself, standing a fair few feet away from their campsite, face wet from the tears he had woken up to. 

His shoulders still shake and he cannot gather himself. 

Jaskier had come even now, followed them and made Ciri laugh when Geralt wondered if she ever would again. 

He played his songs and smiled and even when his eyes were sad, he stood beside Geralt unafraid. 

It was too much. 

Geralt does not jump when the hand brushes over his lower back, had heard Jaskier approaching long before it landed. 

“I know you are sorry.” Jaskier whispers, voice still thick with sleep. 

A wounded sound escapes Geralt’s throat, his eyes squeezing shut. 

Jaskier steps closer, slides his arms around Geralt’s neck slowly, a hand sliding up to cup the back of his head, guiding the Witcher to hide his face against his neck. 

Jaskier smells like citrus, like cedar, like camp-fire smoke. 

“You don’t know.” Geralt rasps, weakly. 

Jaskier hums a soft note in his throat, pets a hand through Geralt’s neglected hair, careful not to let his fingers catch on the tangles. 

“Then tell me.” Jaskier urges, softly, voice low. 

Geralt _whines_ , stifles the sound by biting his tongue. The hot tears roll down his cheeks, wet the soft lace collar of the bard’s undershirt. “I can’t.” He gasps, and slides his arms around Jaskier’s waist, clings to him. 

They stand for hours, until Jaskier nearly dozes off in his arms. Geralt takes them back to a bedroll where they tangle together, Geralt’s nose staying firmly pressed to his neck, breathing in his scent like a drowning man gasps for air. 

In the morning, Jaskier is softer than he has been since they reunited and Geralt knows that he is forgiven. 

He does not deserve the kindness, but it is given freely. 

Jaskier has always given so much. 

Geralt resolves himself to do the same. 

He must. 

+

Kaer Morhen welcomes them with open arms. 

Geralt is surprised by how quickly Vesemir takes Ciri under his wing, but he can see it in the old Witcher’s eyes - can see how endeared he was by her spirit, by her courage in the face of fear and uncertainty. 

She will fit in well. 

Jaskier gets settled into his own chambers, but never even visits them. 

After their first dinner, he follows Geralt back to his old chambers - the chambers that still held the books he used to enjoy, the notes he used to take-- 

The chambers that held Buttercups daggers and Dandelion’s Oud, placed carefully on the desk in the corner of the room. Stacks sat beside them, letters and notes that he had kept, had hoarded. 

He had known them to be mortal and this life to be dangerous, but he had thought he’d get _more time_. 

Jaskier looks at the Oud with the most curiosity, leaning his own lute up against the desk. He reaches out to run fingers over the neck of the instrument and Geralt watches him, standing beside the bed, unsure of where to even begin. 

“You can hold it.” He says, finally, voice rumbling and low with emotion. It fills the room and he looks away from the sight before him, unsure if he could bear it. “It once was yours.” 

A pause. 

“I’m sorry. I’m sure I’d remember owning one of _these_ , thank you ever so much--” Jaskier starts, holding the Oud as he turns to face Geralt. 

Geralt does not lift his gaze from the floor. 

“Not this life.” Geralt finally murmurs, voice creaking out of him, teetering dangerously on the edge of tears. 

“Come again?” Jaskier queries. 

“Not in this life, Jaskier. You’ve been here before.” Geralt finally gathers himself, breathes in deep, forces the words out from where he had been holding the weight of them for so long. 

“That’s… impossible.” Jaskier starts, puts the Oud down, takes a few steps towards Geralt to start closing the space between them. 

Geralt wants to push him away. 

He doesn’t. 

“I thought so, too. But it’s not. I do not know how or why. I do not know how many times and who all you have been. But I’ve known you two lifetimes. This is the third.” Geralt rasps out, and an errant tear slides down his cheek. He does not wipe it away. 

“Geralt.” A whisper. 

“And the longest.” Geralt forces out, pushing through. “The other two, we did not get very long. I let you close--” A pause, a swallow. “I let you close and you died. I--” 

Jaskier is in front of him. 

He reaches and reaches, cups his cheeks, brushes away the tears. 

“I loved you and you died.” Geralt confesses, squeezing his eyes shut and trembles with how tense his muscles have become. “I cannot bear it once more. It would break me.”

Jaskier sucks in a sharp breath. 

And then-- 

“If what you say is true, I’ve always come back. I would always come back, Geralt.” Jaskier is quiet, waits for a moment. “Please look at me?” 

It takes Geralt so long to fight through it, to open his eyes, to meet Jaskier’s, to see their eyes, to smell their scent-- 

All blurred. 

All love. 

“See, I’m quite stubborn and--” It’s his voice, it’s her voice-- 

Geralt ducks forward and kisses him because he can do nothing else. Because he is breaking into pieces either way. 

Jaskier makes a surprised noise, but then leans into it, wraps his arms firmly around Geralt’s neck and doesn’t let him go anywhere. 

When the kiss breaks, he leans their foreheads together, tries to find his words. 

Jaskier pets a hand through his hair. “I’m quite stubborn and I’ll come back for you always. I don’t know when or how or who I’ll be, but I saw you sitting at that bench in Posada, Geralt, and I _knew_.” He whispers. “I saw something in you, recognized you in some deep seated part of me. I thought it was the poet in me seeing my muse, but it very quickly became more than that. I knew you in ways I didn’t understand. It is why I followed you for so long no matter what you threw at me. I knew you were more than that. I didn’t know why, but if what you say is true--” 

A pause where Geralt’s breath hitches, tears rolling hot down his cheeks. 

“If what you say is true, I have loved you before I even met you, Geralt. I have longed for something since I can remember and I never knew what until I was beside you, until we traveled the Path. And it hurt, but I was _home_.” 

Geralt crushes their mouths together again, herds him towards the bed, cannot find language and has to show him instead. Has to make him understand what Geralt feels, what Geralt means. 

+

Jaskier will die someday. 

They know this. 

It will break Geralt into pieces, will leave him decimated. 

But he has Ciri and Vesemir and his brothers. They will give him purpose, will push him on. They will keep him going until Geralt smells citrus, cedar, and camp-fire smoke tangled together on the wind.

He will follow it to wherever it is carried from and he will find a flower there. 

He will take the flower’s hands and he will let them in and he will love them. 

Every time. 

It will break him and heal him. 

He will rage and scream and wail. 

He will laugh and grin and feel joy as wide as the sea. 

For there is no greater privilege in this world than to love and lose and do it all over again. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! <3 And for having patience with me in this incredibly hard time in my life right now.


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